


Anywhere Away With You

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aurors, Implied past sexual abuse by Death Eater, Kidnapping, M/M, Not Fluff, Scary, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-04 05:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15834459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: Harry and Draco go undercover to catch a Squib, but wind up kidnapped and alone and in dangerThe prompt was: Prompt: Harry and Draco are working undercover as muggles when they get caught in a rainstorm. Unable to use magic they take refuge from the cold and the rain in each other.I used snow instead of rain :)





	Anywhere Away With You

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: This is not a fluffy fic. It is funny. It's snarky. But they're in danger. I hope you'll give it a chance anyway. 
> 
>  
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>  
> 
> SPOILER: It's a happy ending
> 
> a billion thanks to the best betas in the world. Crowgirl and GeronimoAndBeMagnificent are brilliant, and cut through the crap to hopefully find a teeny tiny diamond. I hope you think so, too.

“Let’s recap, shall we? We’re unarmed in Muggle London, but it wouldn’t matter, would it? Because there’s no place for wands in Muggle clothing.”

I wrestle with the ropes binding my hands, too frigid and numb to know if I’d sliced into my skin and too pissed off at Potter to care. He bollocksed this up. Him and his typical Gryffindor recklessness. “You see a pretty girl lying on the pavement clutching her leg—”

I can almost hear Potter grinding his teeth in an effort not to respond. He huffs breaths through his nose, and they’re clouds in the icy air. I really shouldn’t say anything else. But, of course I do. 

“—And what do _you_ do? You charge in to save her like the perfect Gryffindor, ignoring that our intel says the perp targets that area—”

“I thought she was—” Potter says, not daring to make eye contact. The apology I hear in his voice was genuine, but fuck that.

We’d been out-dueled by a Wizard who our intel said was a Squib. Who our intel said was a young, slender, blond man. And not a young, slender, blonde woman. Seriously? We need better intel.

Potter opens his mouth—

“Don’t. Just fucking don’t, Potter,” I say, panting from the exertion of trying to break free; no matter what I do, I can’t budge the ropes. We’re going to die alone, frozen like ice lollies—if someone left ice lollies trussed up on the floor of a crack house in February. “Do something or shut the fuck up.” My breath freezes in tiny crystals on my face, and when I scrunch my nose, it stays wrinkled.

It probably will forever.

If I weren’t in excruciating pain--from the backward stretch ripping my shoulder tendons, the floor grinding into my hip bone, and the rope shredding the wool of my brand-new McQueen trousers—I’d be impressed by Callan Bones. First, she’d knocked us out with a spell I’d never seen before. Then, she swanned off, leaving us lying on the floor, face to face with our hands tied behind our backs and the bloody ropes binding my ankles to Potter’s.

I’m going to die staring into Potter’s stupid, ugly, teeth-grinding face. With each angry breath, his chest heaves like a romance novel hero. 

If I were anywhere else, I’d tease out that image of Potter, chest heaving, shirtless—

Also, I’m pretty fucking sure I _did_ cut my wrists. Lucky for me, since every single window in this rathole has been shattered, I’m too frozen to even notice.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Potter says through gritted teeth. “He—I mean, she—was supposed to be a Squib. I didn’t think—”

I laugh, something wild and ugly and say, “You never do. That’s your problem. You’re too fucking impulsive. How did you even make Auror?” Potter flinches, and I don’t care much. “Oh, right. Because you’re Potter. Motherfucking. Harry Potter.”

Potter schools his face, erasing any hurt or anger. The part of me that hasn’t frozen yet twinges with guilt. I know Potter hates being _Harry Potter™._ We’ve been partners for a year; I’ve seen the abuse he takes. And he doesn’t deserve it, because (and it kills me to admit it) nobody trains harder than Potter. When the instructor introduces a new spell, Potter’s practicing long after everyone else is showered and gone. Except for me. He’s been my partner for the past year, and I work with him until we’re both drenched, our clothes sweat-glued to our backs and arses. It’s a good look for him, but I’ll never tell him that. Probably.

 _Fuck._ I should apologize to Motherfucking Harry Potter.

“You’re just so goddamn nice, Potter.” I wriggle my wrist, hoping I’d loosened the binding. The rope scrapes my raw skin, sending bolts of pain up my arm. “You didn’t have to stop to help.”

“I fucked up, I get it,” Potter spits out, and then he’s silent, staring over my shoulder. He’s unnaturally still instead of thrumming with energy like normal.

Merlin’s dirty drawers, Potter’s dead. “Are you dead?” I shout, kicking my feet to jostle Potter, because he can’t be dead. I won’t accept that Potter would do something incredibly selfish like die and leave me alone.

Because Potter is shit at most things, yeah? But he keeps me grounded, makes sure my sarcasm stays at almost acceptable levels. Because he laughs at my bad jokes and rituals I have to do.

Because over the past year, that git—with his ridiculous hair and useless hair gel, his zero sense of social etiquette and lack of any current fashion, his powerful magic and inability to walk without tripping over nothing—made me fall in love with him.

I kick out my feet again. “Potter. You’re not allowed to die!” Because if he does, I could never tell him how I feel.

Potter cracks open his eyelids. “Not dead, you twat. Concentrating. Trying to do wandless magic.”

Fucking pretentious arsehole. Of course you are. Also, I will never admit that was overly melodramatic. 

A knife sails across the room toward my head, and I’m sure the point or the serrated blade is going to kill me. Somehow, it winds up in Potter’s hand, which are still tied behind his back. He catches it with an agonizing _oof._

“How’d you know that was there?”

“Auror, remember?” He’s smiling, but it’s tight, and when he blinks, it’s for a second too long. I’m assuming he caught the knife by the blade or worse, point first. “Trained to notice details.”

I mumble _fuck you,_ even though I’m almost impressed.

“It’s no big deal,” he says, and I know he believes that. That wandless magic for the first time ever, while he’s kidnapped and tied up, is something to apologize for. “I saw it on the table when we came in, with the bowl and syringes. If I can cut the rope, we can get out of here.”

Since we’re stuck lying on the floor face to face, I have to look at him. At his ugly face with those eyes like the spring gardens at the Manor. And his stupid biceps that want to bulge out of the sleeve of his uniform, and his shoulders that are too wide—“We should sit up. I think you’ll have a better angle with the knife.”

Clenching the knife, he strains every core muscle as he pulls himself to a sitting position. Goddamn that shirtless, romance hero image that pops unbidden into my head. Also, it’s too freaking cold to be horny. 

I’m still lying on my side when he’s upright, and searing pain shoots up my legs. The new angle wrenches my knees; even Skele-Gro doesn’t hurt like this. I don’t cry, although I have to squeeze my eyelids to hold the tears back. Because Aurors don’t cry. 

Also. It makes my face blotchy and ugly. And if I am to die, I will at least leave a beautiful corpse.

I struggle to sit up, and Potter can’t do anything except watch and coach me with his praise.  
Once I’m sitting up and facing him again, the ache subsides, but sicking up is a real possibility. The room dips and spins, and I beg it to stop. Deep breathing helps, but the air hurts my lungs. 

Potter has begun working on the ropes again. With the way his wrists are tied, it must be slow going—not to mention not stabbing himself in the back or slicing his skin.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” I force the words out, hoping focusing on Potter instead of dizziness will settle my head.

“Fuck, yes,” he says through gritted teeth.

“But—”

“There’s no _but._ Do you want out?”

I nod, because sweet Salazar Slytherin, I don’t want anything more than that.

“Just—talk to me,” Potter says. “Tell me something I don’t know. Get my mind off this.”

I take a moment and pray I can walk the line between what he doesn’t know and what I don’t want him to know. For example, I am absolutely not revealing my feelings about him. I’ve nurtured this crush in secret, held it close to my chest so he’d never know.

“I’ve always hated living at the Manor,” I offer. “The best day of my life was when I left for Hogwarts when I was 11. But everyone expected I’d be friends with Crabbe and Goyle, because our families were friends. By hanging out with them, I made myself just like my father.”

Merlin, that was—too close to the truth.

“C’mon, Malfoy. That’s not a secret. It’s like me and the room under the stairs. Everybody knows. Tell me something no one knows.”

He’d stopped to raise an eyebrow at me and smirk. I huff in response, like I’m annoyed. But when he smirks at me, I just want to grab his face and kiss him until he’s liquid in my hands and begging me to do something. Anything.

Anywhere else, and I’d be rock hard right now.

“I was really grateful you saved me from the Fiendfyre. I have nightmares about it.”

The flames that had singed my clothes and hair, how my clothes were sweat-drenched. Sometimes, I’d even dream about my fingers grabbing Potter’s body, how it felt to be pressed against him, and I’d try to focus on that instead of being afraid I’d die. Or that I wouldn’t die, and I’d have to live to face my mistakes.

Potter looks up, and his voice sounds as fragile as I feel. “I was—I—couldn’t just let you die. I knew you’d changed. That when the war was over, you’d do good things.”

“I try,” I say around the knot in my throat. “It’s why I became an Auror.”

He’s smiling like he’s so damn proud of me. “I know,” is all he says.

I clear my throat and hope he can’t hear the tears in my voice. “Why’d you become an Auror? You’ve been through so much—Voldemort and being used by Dumbledore. And everyone knew Umbridge abused you. If I were you, I’d have moved away.”

“Can’t. The Weasleys are all the family I have.” He cuts me off sharp and quick. As if he’s trying to make up for it, he says, “Thanks for saying we should sit up. I was having trouble angling the knife, but I’m hitting the rope right now.”

We sit in overwhelming silence. He’s focused on cutting the rope; I’m wondering how long frostbite takes to make your fingers necrotic to the point they fall off, one by one, like icicles from the roof.

And since it’s probably creepy for me to stare at the beads of sweat dripping down his neck, I try again. “Then why did you become an Auror?”

He glares at me, angrier than he’s been so far. He spits his words at me like he’s trying to hurt me. “Because—without a fight, what am I? A scared kid who would’ve failed out of Hogwarts if Hermione hadn’t done most of my work. What other choice did I have?”

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“Fuck, no,” Potter says, leaving no doubt how he feels. Then he pauses and says, “You make it okay. Bearable. It’s kind of funny when you do your impersonations.”

He gives me a half-smile, then looks back down at the floor and starts hacking away at the ropes again. _What the fuck, Potter. You choose now to say something nice?_

“They’re not even good,” I say, and if I had any heat in my body, I’d blush.

“They’re brilliant, especially the one of Ron.” Potter laughs, but stops as fast as he started, as if it hurts to laugh. “Don’t tell him I said that. He’d kill me.”

“The easiest way to keep myself safe at the Manor,” I blurt out before I can stop myself, “Was to be nice to them. To make them laugh. They’d give me extra food. And—stay away from me.” I don’t have to say who; he knows. “Sometimes the Dark Lord would even almost smile. But there’s not a lot of money in Wizard comedy is there?”

My heart pounds trying to beat out of my chest; I’ve never told anyone that, nothing close to how they used to come at me in the dark. I think my honesty shocks him because he doesn’t respond, so I forge ahead, afraid that in the quiet, my mind will respond with some obscene Shakespeare paraphrase: to die or not to die. “Do you even have any feeling in your fingers? I’m numb.”

“Yeah, a little,” Potter says, and he sounds worried. But there’s an undercurrent of anger, and I think it might be _for_ me instead of _at_ me. He looks at me like I’m fragile, someone to be protected, and Merlin, if we were somewhere else at some other time, I might even take a step closer to him and hope he’d do the same.

“My father raised me to hate you. He called you a filthy Mudblood, and the few times he was forced to say your name, he looked like would literally vomit. But I never figured out why I was supposed to hate you, because all the stories I’d ever heard were brilliant. How you defeated the most powerful Wizard ever when you were just a baby. And everyone was always so happy when they talked about you.” 

Potter’s staring at me, and he’s biting down on his lip so he doesn’t say something stupid. This time, I don’t think he’s angry with me. “Your father is a fucking arsehole,” he says

I flinch because I was also trained that Father was never wrong. I thought it would be hard to break that belief, but once you see your father allow Pure Evil to live in your home and close his eyes to anything that’s happening to his own family—no. It wasn’t hard to break at all. 

But I like having Potter furious on my behalf. “It’s alright. I figured out that my father is full of shit.”

Potter laughs loudly, and I don’t know how he can when our situation is dire. He smiles and says, “Do you still hate me?”

“Don’t be dull. Of course I do.” Because I know he’s watching me, I roll my eyes. I know he doesn’t believe me. It’s written on his face, in the soft, half smile and the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. When he looks at me like that, I ache to tell him I haven’t hated him for years.

While he works, I try wandless magic, but I have no idea what I’m doing. But clearly, the windows aren’t going to repair themselves, so I should try. It’s better than doing nothing and freezing.

Maybe it’s like Apparition, but instead of concentrating on _destination, determination, deliberation,_ I choose desire (for an action), determination (for it to happen), and deliberation (being thoughtful and precise).

I _desire_ for the windows to be repaired, am _determined_ the glass shards on the floor will knit themselves together in the frame, and believe me, I’m thoughtful and precise in my mind.

Nothing. Not one fragment of glass even shimmies in its spot on the floor. No matter how much time I spend on it, not that I have any idea of time. It was dark when I started; it’s still dark. Could be 30 minutes? An hour? I’ve no idea.

I suck.

Potter’s sweaty and pale, and I lean to the side to see if Potter’s made progress on his bindings. I can’t see anything except blood that’s pooling on the floor under where Potter’s working.

“Are you holding the knife by the blade?” I ask, because he can’t be. That would be stupid, even for Potter.

He doesn’t answer. His lips blend in with his chalky face.

“Potter. _Answer me.”_ Hysteria creeps into my voice, and Auror training taught me to be better than that. Why aren’t I better than that?

“Almost got it.” Potter exhales heavily; the motion of his hand has stopped. “Just keep talking. Tell me something else so I can ignore the pain.”

“There had to be another way besides hurting yourself! You’re a fucking idiot.”

“I know. You were pretty clear about that. Just keep talking so we can get out of here.”

“I don’t know what to say.” I can’t take my eyes off the puddle and the ripples each time a new drop hits it. “You ask me something.” Maybe him talking will keep him focused and present.

“Why don’t you date?” He speaks slowly and the gaps between words is getting long. It’s the thousand cuts from the knife.

“I do date. I—"

“You don’t.” A single bead of sweat rolls down his cheek. It’s so cold in here that I’d give anything for a firewhisky or even one of Potter’s dishwater cups of coffee, but he’s sweating. 

Merlin, it’s not a tear, he’s not crying, right? My breath shudders, and my control is slipping. “I’m interested in someone,” I force myself to say, “But he’s busy all the time.”

He stops for a moment and looks at me; the bright green eyes are glassy and dim, but he holds my gaze like he’s hoping my eyes will give up all my secrets. “Have you asked him out?”

“I told you. He’s busy.” I sound defensive. I know I do. Maybe he’ll think it’s just anger.

“Been partners with you over a year.” He closes his eyes and continues to saw the rope. “Never knew you to be afraid.”

“Just get us the fuck out of here.” I deflect. Deflection is good; it’s my oldest friend along with sarcasm. They’ve preserved my secrets for years, including that I love Potter. “Also. Fuck you. I’m not afraid. He’s just—everyone wants to go out with him. Why would he choose me.” It’s not even a question, but a statement of fact.

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” His voice sounds shaky, and he’s too white, like the snow that drifts into the room through the broken windows. “You’re a lot of things. A bloody good Auror. A great partner. A good friend.”

He can barely speak. How can he hold the knife?

“We are friends, right?” he asks me with the biggest smile he can muster without strength. “Because sometimes I think you might like me. I want to ask you out sometime. On a proper date. Maybe the Muggle cinema and then dinner. I think you might even say yes.”

It’s the last thing he says.

The knife clatters to the floor and the noise echoes in the empty room but not as loudly as I scream. “No! Harry!” and I’m helpless. I can’t reach out to help him as his body tilts sideways and edges to the filthy floor. I don’t know if he’s passed out, dead, I don’t know what. I throw myself to the floor, ignore my legs screaming at me, but I can’t—I can’t touch him, can’t help.

I’m desperate enough to break the Statute of Secrecy if any Muggles are somewhere in this building. I have to get word to the Aurors, and my only chance to save Harry is by Patronus message. I’ve never successfully conjured one, but I have to try. Nothing matters but this. Not the cold, not the bile rising up my throat from panic. Not the pain.

I close my eyes and imagine walking hand in hand with Harry. He stops and turns to me, says he needs to kiss me. _Yes._ I would say yes.

_Expecto Patronum!_

My voice bounces off the walls in this squalid hovel, but it works. Oh god, it worked.

My Patronus is a snake.

Later I’ll be disappointed at the lack of imagination. 

My Patronus slithers off to the Auror Force carrying as much information as I could give it.

“Wandless Patronus,” Harry whispers. “Not bad.”

I’m startled by his voice. He’s alive. Thank you, Merlin. He’s alive.

I’m afraid, so afraid. My chest feels like ropes are binding it, holding it down so I can’t breathe and all I do is laugh, laugh until I’m sobbing uncontrollably. But the relief doesn’t outweigh the fear, because if my Patronus fails, we’ll both die.

“You arse. You better stay awake. You promised me dinner and a movie.” I scrape myself across the floor to get as close to him as I can. It’s just a few centimeters, but it takes years until my forehead almost touches his. My feet are as useless as my hands. They’re beyond numb, and I don’t even care anymore.

“Not feeling too good,” he slurs, and I can barely hear him.

I push my thoughts of death to the side, stuff them into the back of my mind and try wandless magic again.

“Relashio!” I shout and envision the ropes falling away.

Nothing.

Each time I say it, my voice is thicker with tears because it doesn’t fucking work.

I’m crying too hard to continue, and my message to the Aurors is our only hope. Harry’s going to die, and it’ll be my fault. I don’t care that people will blame me. I care that he won’t be with me.

I talk to him like he asked before. I tell them that he’s not _nothing_. All the cases we cleared because of him. That I’m envious of how easily he jumped in to help strangers. That if I could, I’d spend the rest of my life with him.

I don’t know why I thought I was cold. My feet feel warm now, cosy. I feel heavy and can’t move, don’t want to move from our uncomfortable bed. The snow looks beautiful as it flows through the window of our bedroom. The room is almost dark, and I slipped off to sleep next to Harry. I am profoundly at peace.

And finally, I’m happy.

~*~

It’s hard to wake up.

I don’t want to.

I like lying with Harry. 

Today we’re going to the cinema.

“He’s coming around,” a stranger’s voice says from far away.

Too many people talk at once, and I only catch a few words.

“Potter’s lost a lot of—”

“Thank Merlin we—”

“Malfoy’s Patronus—”

“Dislocated shoulders, frostbite—”

“Saint Mungo’s—”

“Thank Merlin you’re awake!” someone says. It’s the Weasel.

Through barely open eyes, I recognize this room at St. Mungo’s. Harry and I nicknamed it the Potter-Malfoy Suite because we’re here so often.

I remember. I remember the cold and the fear and the blood. I struggle to sit up, but Weasel gently holds me down. “Harry. Is he—” I don’t think I want the answer.

“He’s good,” Hermione says, through tears. Her face is red and blotchy, but she’s grinning. “You saved his life.”

She hugs me so tightly that I wince. My shoulders are angry. “So, we hug now? It’s a thing we do?” My voice is shredded, but I try to sound wry instead of pitiful.

She punches my arm as lightly as she can, but it feels like a fighter’s wallop.

“He’ll be back in a moment,” Weasel says. “Kingsley wanted to talk, but Harry insisted they had to leave the room so they wouldn’t bother you.”

As if on cue, the Mediwizard pushes open the door, and Harry shuffles through.

“You look like shit,” I say, partly because he does. His face is pale, and I can’t ignore the deep circles around his eyes. But partly because I don’t want to say anything stupid. Like _I love you._ “Yes, really like shit.”

“That’s not what your mum said,” Harry’s voice is quiet, but he smiles wide.

“Please.” I sniff with as much disdain as I can manage. “My mother would never sleep with you; she has impeccable taste.”

“What about you?” Harry asks.

He’s at my bedside and pokes his hand through the slats on the safety rail. They’re there so I don’t fall.

What they don’t realize is, I’ve already fallen.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the Rita Ora song [Anywhere](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ksdAs4LBRq8)


End file.
